I wasn’t sure how I’d ended up back in my room, but there I was, curled up on my bed, pressed against the wall with my arms wrapped tightly around my knees. The harsh, salty traces on my cheeks were the only reminders of the tears I’d shed.

For as long as I could remember, I’d stopped seeing Giovanni Greco as my father. He was merely the man who allowed me to stay under his roof, provided I became his servant. In my earliest years, he’d left me in the care of various women, ...